Enjoys pressing the undersides of mugs and glasses on fabric to leave behind wet rings of condensation on clothing.

Words dribbled onto canvas.
Fears and childish thoughts rippled outward from churning inner space while the world is quiet.
Never quite sure where the line is.
Knowing the line is just a construct.
Categories, buckets, simplicities for the sake of making life easier.

Wanting to navigate those more complex waters, seeing wonder and satisfaction.
Thrilled with the universe.
Nervous about drowning.
A dull hum slowly resonating.
Like the noise of the grain of timbers softened and finished for tabletops and chairs and counters.

Flipping the sweatshirt on and off again.
Twirling the smooth fabric inside out and outside in and the moment of warmth.
Against the moment of those sleeves just that inch too far.
Those sleeves, to toy with them, tug at them, pull them back.
Or use them to cover the fist, wrapped and tucked away. Safe.

It's a moment.
Dribbled out across the pavement like coffee dripping from a cracked travel mug.
No longer useful, after only a year.
Not even a mocha now. Coffee with some half and half and sugar.
Stopped getting whip cream every time on mochas.

That was forever ago, and that was never planned.
Pressing some more condensation into pant legs, the darkening temporary moisture.
Gone back into the air, or whatever it does so rapidly.
Pushing the sleeve back, settled hands in the old familiar manner.